


In shreds, it seems

by TempestGael



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestGael/pseuds/TempestGael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The history of Camelot, and Albion itself, took a dangerous turn with the reign of Uther Pendragon.  Magic users refused to be victimized.  Two sides have entrenched themselves in war over the existence of magic.  Albion's destiny seems desperately out of reach, unless the chasm between Camelot and the magic users can be bridged.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(*Important note: Non-con is implied, and not between Arthur and Merlin.  That is also where the "underage" tag comes in (Merlin is 14-18 when it occurs). I wanted to tag it to be safe.)</p>
<p>**Please note this fic is a work in progress (I'm sorry). I do intend to finish it, but it's likely going to take a while. I thought starting to post would motivate me to make time for writing and getting this monstrosity finished!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started out as my intended Paper Legends entry in 2012. Life got in the way, so although I've been picking at it on and off since then, it's largely unfinished. I hate posting works in progress, but at this point I thought if I started posting it, I might light a fire under myself to actually finish it (because I do really want to finish it!). More tags, etc. will be added as I gradually add to the fic.
> 
>  
> 
> This has gone through many re-vamps, but the story is loosely based on/contains elements of this KinkMe!Merlin prompt.

**Now**.

 

_This is why_. The thought came to Merlin as it always did: a glacial crawl to the forefront of his consciousness as if it were someone else’s idea – someone else’s lesson – pushed into his head, against his will. A truth that worried away at whatever marginally untouched corner into which he’d managed to squeeze himself, slamming him into the cold, omniscient light of the intrusion. It was always the same: rough hands on his face, moving his head to the position it was needed for the cruel, cold fingers to slot against his temples, the corners of his eyes, his cheekbones, the hinges of his jaw. The unnecessary tightening of the ropes at his wrists and upper arms, at his ankles and thighs. _This is why._ If it was a ‘good’ day there would be no other hands roaming his bare skin, fingertips touching and pressing where it made Merlin’s skin crawl and his stomach roil; no rough palms idling on or gripping his hands, feet, legs, arms, belly. If it was a good day the only unwanted hands were the ones on his face, the ones that were a constant. The reminder Merlin had brought this on himself was going to break something inside him; slow, freezing water forcing hard stone to splinter and split and come apart.

_This is why mum wanted you to hide it._

 

This was not to be one of the good days, because this time it felt different.

Not the intrusion. That was always the same. The cold; the sharp, uncomfortable brightness behind his eyes. The persistent quiet drone that exploded into a roar as his body, or what it contained, at least - the poison he had treasured and feared and loved and now abhorred – and his mind were moulded to the will of others. It was a dreadful feeling, that sameness, as what had been his power and his strength was doled out to the grasping hands and the cruel fingers, and to their cruel laughter and intimate murmurs of approval.

‘Same’ used to be unnoticed, until it had become comforting; comforting until it had started to become boring. It was difficult to remember that old, boring sameness, when Will had goaded him daily into competitions over anything and everything under the bright, warm sun. This sameness – the heavy tread of Esclados’ steps on the stone, the deceptive smoothness of his face and the youth of his eyes, the cold iron grip of his hands – never failed to set Merlin’s frayed nerves and emotions on edge. He would never be killed. Morgause had promised him that much, whatever its worth. But that didn’t mean Esclados didn’t delight in seeing how far Merlin could be pushed.

The difference today was clear to Merlin when Esclados took hold and directed him, lightning-quick, to the consciousness of one of the Seers. The difference was the army stealing toward the fortress, melting in and out of shadows but aware – they had to be – of the wards in place to warn of their approach. This army was an intrusion of a different kind, but they were no less a fuel to Merlin’s anxiety and anger. These soldiers were ‘the enemy’, though Merlin considered it vaguely ironic that his own self-proclaimed allies had harmed him one thousand times more than these invading soldiers ever had. These enemies had made myriad attempts nearly identical to this one: silent and deadly, except they never took the sorcerers by surprise. Now the Seer with whom Merlin briefly shared the Sight felt a vague sense of unconcerned anticipation before Esclados dug his fingertips painfully into Merlin’s skull and, together, they careened past the other magic users in the fortress and out beyond the walls into the forest. Esclados hummed to himself and Merlin, quiet and clinging to his corner, gasped in pain when Esclados directed Merlin’s power deep into the earth. A pair of black hounds took shape from soil and silt and mist, rushed and tore skin, crushed bone with their unearthly strength before the enemy knew what was upon them. The soldiers streamed red that stained their bright cloaks and shiny, useless armour. Merlin watched the soldiers’ dying faces, saw them contort and still before his attention whisked elsewhere, covering miles in an instant, plummeting into the afanc lumbering clumsily but with increasing speed and strength from a cliff side. It would trouble the soldiers for hours. The hounds were wisps of thought and fear, melting away like shadows in the sunlight, but the afanc was solid and autonomous when given orders. In years, the enemy soldiers could never combat Merlin-Esclados’ mastery of nature with their fire-forged weapons.

It was easier to concentrate on things other than the immediate carnage of battle when Esclados had the power at his command and Merlin was nothing but the font through which it flowed. Any untouched corner of Merlin’s mind was rapidly overtaken by Esclados’ manic glee at destroying the Camelot soldiers and the painful burn of the power beneath Merlin’s skin.

Merlin had learned over time to shoulder aside the worst of the pain; to fool his own consciousness into numbness. It was like floating face-up in a cold mountain lake: hearing muffled, extremities tingling and aching for the sweet relief the fire in the shelter of the bank would bring when the sun began to set and take the edge off the hot summer day. It was sharp discomfort and a balm. Holding on to that fleeting sensation, Merlin cast about as subtly as his clumsy, unpractised skill would allow for the consciousness of the nearest sorcerer. He had had a lot of time to practice this, but the skill remained almost entirely beyond him. Reaching out to another usually brought him nothing more than the fleeting impression of a particularly strong feeling, or a look through the eyes of a sorcerer who had leeched from him. But it was something. Something to sustain him, to try and convince himself he was more than a glorified weapon.

And this time was absolutely different. There was a sorcerer – Aerfen, Merlin thought – on the parapet near Merlin’s tower. She was, in concert with several of the others, directing fire toward one faction of the Camelot army. From the periphery of this borrowed vision a strange shadow appeared in the creeping dawn beyond the fortress walls.

It was quick. But the glimpse stirred a strange fear that was Merlin’s alone. The vision was gone before he had the chance to analyze it: a shape briefly blocked out the early morning sun and cast a wavering darkness over the eastern walls before sliding away around a corner or…Merlin lunged to hold on to the vision; if he could -

Pain brought him back, panting and with tears streaming from his eyes as he arched weakly, his body desperate to escape Esclados’ spell. When he managed to open his eyes Esclados’ dark face was close to his, eyes flinty and cold and a cruel smirk twisting his mouth. “Are you bored, little one?” Esclados snarled. Merlin stammered a negative, but further words were reduced to breathless shapes of his lips. Esclados narrowed the spell to the small of Merlin’s back, and the world went dimmed, only for brightness to slam in again with a hard slap across Merlin’s face. “I can’t –“ _feel my toes_ , he almost said. The words tripped and died in his throat, and Merlin fought to swallow around them. Esclados seized a handful of Merlin’s hair and yanked, craning his head back painfully over the edge of the platform.

“You’ve seen it,” Esclados whispered; his foul breath made Merlin gag. “Your people need you, and what are you trying to do?”

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that threatened. “N-nothing.”

“Exactly.” Esclados looked up, toward the door, and jerked his head. His smirk widened smugly. “Your people need you,” he repeated.

The second wave of hands was not unexpected, but Merlin jerked in reaction anyway. The magic users crowded him from all sides, laying hands on any inch of skin they could reach. Before he closed his eyes Merlin saw Morgause approach from the door. She looked angry. He knew whatever was happening had to be something important; Morgause rarely took from him this way. She closed her hand around Merlin’s throat, rubbing his pulse point with her thumb. Esclados’ eyes slid shut and he grunted, satisfied, and for the second time since nightfall Merlin was subjected to the uncomfortable sensation of his magic leeching from him. He never grew accustomed to the feeling – he was always thrown back to a far-off memory of being rushed by his mother to the village physician after being bitten by a snake in the wheat field. The physician had fitted his mouth around the wound in Merlin’s leg and sucked until the wound was swollen and hot, painful to the touch and throbbing with every rabbit-frantic beat of Merlin’s heart. The sensation of being magic-drained was the same, and his stomach cramped. Merlin dry-heaved where he was laying prone, bringing up nothing but bile that burned the back of his throat when he was forced to swallow it down.

Struggling always made it worse, but it wasn’t long before Merlin could not manage to keep still despite the bindings. The tattoos burned, he felt wrung out and exhausted, but still Esclados pushed him. The teasing was over for now. Merlin was not privy to the faces of the Camelot men dying where they stood. Esclados was businesslike in his work now, likely to impress Morgause. Merlin floated in the place that was in its own way far more uncomfortable than the intimate proximity to the death surrounding them. He was lost and tumbling between darkness and consciousness, listless and unable to formulate coherent thought or the control over his limbs to resist.

It dragged on. Merlin had the sleepy notion that the sorcerers were frightened – terribly so. Time meant nothing to him like this, but it felt dreadfully long. That sleepy consciousness remaining was trying to raise the alarm, but Merlin could not quite bring himself to mind it. He was warm, and sinking slowly into a place that promised him rest and freedom. He rather wanted to chase it, but it seemed inclined to take its own sweet time, wiping away the lingering fear like mother used to wipe away the clouds the cooking fire used to create inside their dirty windows.

Outside the warmth, voices raised in sharp disapproval.   The tightness at Merlin’s throat vanished. The hands on his body withdrew. Merlin was unaware.

The pain, when it renewed, was unlike anything he’d felt in a long time. It broke the contentedness that had been seeping into his core, shoved him from the promised comfort and warmth _(Will, insisting Merlin be the first plunge into the stream when the ice broke up)_ back to the plunging, searing ache in his chest. The first sound Merlin heard clearly was his own desperate, wheezing sobs. Esclados reached deeper. He pulled reserves of magic from the bindings and launched a firestorm at a particularly nagging squad of Camelot knights clamouring for access to the southern gate.

“They will hold the fortress.” Morgause. Pleased.

Esclados’ voice was thick with pleasure; he dragged Merlin’s consciousness, resisting, to the fore to watch the last moments of the Camelot knights roasting in their armour. Merlin gasped, sobbed. He couldn’t see for the tears. “Indeed we will, now he’s being a good boy.”

“We need him alive.” Morgause no longer sounded pleased. Merlin’s vision tunnelled. Morgause snarled. “Esclados!”

Abruptly, Esclados’ hands released their grip, leaving Merlin gasping and his head lolling. He knew whatever they asked of him now he’d be unable to obey, no matter the promised punishment. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Merlin levered his eyelids open just enough to see Esclados rally and place himself in Morgause’s space. She threw him aside without speaking; merely a brief flash of her eyes. “I could ask you the same,” she replied. Merlin shivered at her tone. _I’m sorry, sweetling. This is necessary._ “Perhaps I made a mistake, Esclados. You would kill Emrys over a minor scuffle with the Pendragon princeling?”

“You know as well as I there is more –“

Morgause smirked. “Esclados, your fear is adorable. We have the situation well in hand. With the boy’s power in our veins Uther’s pitiful soldiers cannot hope to stand against us. Nothing has changed.” She leaned in then, close to Merlin, but he could not summon the strength to do more than fight to keep his eyes open. Morgause pressed her lips to Merlin’s forehead, a chilling parody of a protective kiss. Merlin couldn’t stop his distressed whimper. She was smirking when she pulled away. “Thank you, sweetling; you have done very well once again.”

Her heels clicked dully along the floor as she walked away. “Leave him be,” she snapped. Esclados must have made a move to pick up where he’d left off. “If I receive word you have disobeyed me, Esclados-“

Merlin did not register the rest of her warning. The promised comfort and warmth he’d longed for mere minutes before abruptly swamped him as cold, uncompromising darkness, and he knew nothing more.

 

 

**Then.**

 

It was magic, but mum always called it ‘cheating’.

_No cheating, darling._ She said that a lot. When Merlin was old enough he teased that it was his earliest memory of her: repeating the words as her personal mantra, gently grasping his wrists and breaking [whatever Merlin had been moving with his magic] his concentration. Mum had a small garden, and Merlin had always loved making things grow. Pressing his fingers into the earth, feeling the movement of water and minerals and coaxing dry, half-dead seeds to sprout and follow his lead back through the earth and into the sunlight, usually while mum was inside but sometimes with her over his shoulder, a pinched expression on her face. The earth and everything connected to it loved Merlin’s magic; it was drawn to him and him to it.

He cheated when mum was upset – marching bits of parchment and cloth, or ladles and bowls, or spools of thread and soft strands of wool around mum’s head, or behind her, or behind himself while he clowned on the hard earthen floor of their hut, pretending their scant belongings were attacking him like vicious sorcerers and greedy knights. It worked, often. Mum would smile at him before her eyes turned sad again. When that happened, she made Merlin put everything away – _no cheating_. But then mum would cuddle him tight, hum and rock gently, and Merlin would find it difficult to believe she was upset with him.

Though there were days she did grow upset with him. Once in particular Merlin still cringed to think on, when he’d tried to float mum the same way he floated the bits and bobs around their hut. Mum had let out such a shriek when Merlin managed it that some of the men working the field had come running, laying into the door like hell hounds. In such a state of panic Merlin had been unable to sort out how to bring her back to earth, so mum had had to hold on to the wall to try and keep her feet on the floor. She’d opened the door a crack and lied to the men, saying she’d only seen a rat and felt a little faint.

Eventually, when Merlin had grown tired enough, the magic wore off. He didn’t try floating mum again after that; she had been angry and short with him for hours, and he’d relished the conquest when he’d finally made her smile at him again.

 

Apart from cheating in the garden and trying to make mum smile, Merlin enjoyed just running through the fields, skimming his hands along the tops of the stalks of wheat when they were growing and delighting in the way they craned to follow him and tickled the palms of his hands. When the fields were nearly ready for harvesting the stalks grew taller than Merlin and Will, and then Merlin liked to play hiding games with Will and the other children.

Will was the only person apart from mum who knew about Merlin’s magic, and Will always wanted Merlin to cheat at everything, no matter what they were playing at. Even though he knew it made Merlin’s mum angry and sad. Merlin tried to avoid cheating because he didn’t want to upset mum, but Will – two years older and, in his own opinion, far more worldly than Merlin – had a way of getting Merlin into trouble. Usually Will was kind, but when Will was a prat he liked to tell Merlin that he knew more about everything. For ages, until he’d grown up some, Merlin had believed him. Eventually, though, he realized that Will did not, in fact, know more about everything. What Will did know more of was how to lie, and how to get Merlin into trouble and himself out of it.

Getting Merlin into trouble was Will’s best subject – knowing things like the best trees for Merlin to climb to get them apples, or honey; like the best rocks for Merlin to overturn to find salamanders and other bugs; like the perfect time for Merlin to wade into the ponds to hunt tadpoles or polliwogs to sneak into old man Simmons’ cider or down the backs of girls’ blouses and dresses. Merlin always ended up with those jobs; Will always said Merlin was sneakier, and faster, but Merlin knew from the age of six that it was only because Will had been caught so many times that no one ever wanted to take their eyes off him.

Will had found out about the magic accidentally, when they were three and five and Merlin had caught him when Will was climbing, missed a handhold, and tumbled from a tree. The magic had been nervous and at the surface of Merlin’s skin and the tips of his fingers, so when Merlin had taken Will’s hand to pull him up Will’s eyes had gone yellow and he’d accidentally pushed Merlin back, hard, with borrowed power. They had gaped at one another, Merlin from his bottom on the grass and Will from his feet several yards away. Mum had come running, her skirt rucked up in her hands and the beat of her feet against the grass sending tiny tremors from the earth into Merlin’s scraped, aching palms and bottom.

“You mustn’t tell a soul, William.” She had been angrier than Merlin had ever heard her to that point. “No one. _Promise me._ ”

Though he’d only been three Merlin could still remember Will’s wide-eyed, fearful expression. He’d nodded so quickly he looked like one of the funny puppets Eldred carved when he was not busy building or mending whatever needed his attention in the village. That expression was the most vivid in Merlin’s recall of Will’s face, and he’d mimicked it at his own reflection for ages, trying to contort his muscles just so in order to add it to his repertoire of things that made Will bluster and swing at Merlin (even though Will had never seen his own face in that particular, hilarious arrangement). “I promise,” Will had sworn then. His voice had quavered, high and shocked. “I promise.”

It was the first time Merlin and mum learned what exactly Merlin’s cheating could do, and it was the moment mum’s fear for Merlin had exploded in magnitude. That, in fact, was truly Merlin’s earliest memory of her, and of Will, and of his magic: fear and light and pounding hearts, and tears in mum’s eyes that Merlin hadn’t understood.


	2. Six - part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I apologize for any glaring errors in here; I've read it over numerous times, but it's very late and I'm bound to miss something! I'll go back through in the morning and quadruple-check. ;) I hope you enjoy!)

“Could do.”

“You couldn’t.” Merlin’s foot slipped sharply on the rough bark and he scraped his knee painfully against the trunk. He hissed through his teeth and scrambled to right himself. Peering down between the trunk and his chest he couldn’t quite see any sign of a wound. Mum wouldn’t be happy if his trousers were torn...again. Somewhere above him Will grunted softly, and seconds later a small apple hit Merlin’s bowed head. “Ouch – stop it.”

Will snickered. “Don’t be a baby. Hurry up.”

Part of Merlin wanted to stay where he was and pout. It wasn’t fair: Will was taller, had a longer reach. “’S high enough,” he mumbled into the tree. 

Another apple bounced lightly off his head. “Baby,” Will crowed. “Go get some skirts and play with the girls.”

The promise Will had made to mum after The Incident With The Tree had been kept. For all that Will could be a pain, he hadn’t told anyone about Merlin’s cheating. About the magic. That did not mean, however, that Will was utterly without guile.

The tree whispered to Merlin through the rustling in its leaves and the minute shifting of its roots. Will is a prat, Merlin translated. It was just like this particular tree to say that. The tree was a little like old Simmons in that way. It wouldn’t have any patience for Will being a pain. The fact the tree complained a little when it was climbed, and the fact it didn’t exactly feel awful that Merlin had just scraped his knee made it seem all the more like old Simmons, but for now Merlin could just pretend it was on his side. He wondered if it would tumble Will from its branches if Merlin asked it to. He smiled a little against the trunk. “Should’ve brought Caron.” Will was pontificating loudly from his perch. “He can climb. He’s not a baby like you’re being right now.”

“’M not a baby,” Merlin panted. Lips pressed together, he shuffled up a few more inches. Caron. Will hated Caron, and Caron hated Will. At Beltane celebrations Caron always beat Will in the foot race. Merlin didn’t often find himself too bothered by Will’s teasing; he knew it wasn’t true, that Will didn’t mean it. Will was quick to apologize to Merlin if he went too far, for the very simple reason that Will wasn’t very good at making friends who weren’t Merlin. 

A snort. “You’re almost there.” Will’s voice was a little kinder. Just a little. Merlin’s fingers were starting to tremble. He hadn’t climbed this high before. If mum saw him he was going to be in trouble. He managed a quick glance up to gauge how far he had left to climb. Will’s bare feet were dangling just out of reach. “Could pull you down,” he panted.

“Couldn’t.”

“Ha. Just like...you couldn’t...fight the king.” Merlin found a good handhold – a weird, stumpy half-branch. Will had probably broken it himself ages ago, when he started climbing. Probably hit his fat head on it. The thought made Merlin smile: Will, bouncing from branch to branch, the branches breaking off or raining down on Will’s head when he landed on the ground. Branches and apples. Rotten apples. With worms.

“Stop being weird. That stupid smile,” Will muttered. “And I could too fight the king. He’s all fat and lazy, sat on his throne shouting at everyone. Won’t even kill no one with his own hands.”

Merlin managed the last few vertical inches, and Will grabbed him by one arm and – painfully – hauled him up onto the strong limb. Merlin bodily crawled over him, nudging Will over so Merlin could wrap an arm around the tree’s strong trunk. Despite being Simmons-y it was a good anchor, this tree. Strong, with a deep, thrumming voice. Merlin liked it; liked wrapping his arms around it and just listening. Will called him weird for that, too, but right now he just rolled his eyes without saying anything about bugs getting into Merlin’s ear when he had it up against the tree like this. “How do you know what the king looks like, anyway?” Merlin challenged. “You never saw a king ever in your whole life.”

“All kings are fat. And lazy. King of Camelot, king of the magics. Bet any other kings are all fat and lazy too. They don’t fight. They don’t go out. We do that for them.”

“Not me.”

“Course not you, or me. People **like** we. Like us. Da said.”

Merlin frowned. Will was always passing on things his da said. Sometimes it didn’t sound right. Merlin tested out those lessons-from-Will-from-Will’s-da on mum, and he knew Will had it wrong if mum’s mouth twisted up, or if she covered up her face with her hand, like she was trying not to laugh, or if she was laughing and didn’t want Merlin to know. There were many stories from the men around Ealdor, and from mum, about the dangerous soldiers and magic users who had come to take people away from towns and villages to fight in their war. The war had started before Merlin had even been born, mum said, when the king in Camelot had become angry after his wife had died, and the king of magic users had gathered his frightening sorcerers and Seers. Danger was everywhere, mum told him, and he wasn’t to go far from home. Merlin thought Ealdor was so small and quiet that no bad could ever come here. Not really. Not more than old Simmons chasing him and Will with a stick – and even the grass and the earth laughed at that. If they didn’t worry, Merlin didn’t really worry either.

“What would you do, then?” Merlin asked Will. “Throw apples at him?”

Will shrugged, serene. “Maybe. Probably use a sword, though. Or a lance. Stab him right in the fat belly. Him and the man in black.” He mimed the thrust of the sword, and the reaction of the king: wide eyes, dramatic choking gasps, clutching his middle. Merlin had to grab Will before he swayed backwards out of the tree.

“You can’t use a sword. Not even a practice sword.”

“I’m better than you!”

“The king has guards, too. Loads. And the man in black – he’s got magic.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Well, you still can’t fight them all. Even a fat king’ll know you’re coming if he hears you trying to fight all his guards. And I bet your belly is as big as the king’s, you eat so much. You’re too slow to be sneaky and you’re too slow to fight.” He grinned triumphantly as Will scowled.

The hard shove to his shoulder was worth it. “Shut it and start picking,” Will muttered. “Be here all day with you nattering on like some old crone. Man in black’ll probably come and rip your throat out, you talk so much.” He nimbly got to his feet, balancing on his toes in a way Merlin could never manage to start plucking the ripest looking apples from the tree. Merlin watched him work for a few seconds, as Will picked with one hand and with the other stretched out the hem of his tunic in a makeshift basket to hold as many as he could. “Go on then, Merlin; hurry up,” Will ordered. “We’ll be here all day if you don’t help.”

Merlin sighed. He got to his feet, keeping his arm around the tree for balance. Then he concentrated.

He didn’t know how it worked; not at all. Sometimes it happened when he asked. Sometimes it happened when he didn’t want it to. He wasn’t trying to tell the tree, or anything else, what to do. If he wanted something to happen, he tried to ask. He supposed he was just getting better at asking and getting answers. The magic – his cheating - was a little like tiny, happy threads of golden light dancing all around. Merlin could hear it and see it, sometimes, everywhere he went. When he wanted to use it, the light liked to dance in his fingers, his arms, his legs, and even behind his nose – a tickle like the start of a sneeze. It itched a little, and sometimes Merlin could feel it as a jolt in his fingertips – not painful, but more like the jolts he and Will tried to give one another and everybody else after rubbing bits of fur between their hands.

The apple tree was happy to help today, it seemed. Merlin hardly had to ask at all, and he heard Will shout with surprise as a heap of apples dropped from the tree, rained past them, and thudded to the ground like giant delicious raindrops. Merlin laughed gaily, and the tree laughed too. 

“Who’s there?”

The voice, unexpected and unfamiliar, and startled them both. Merlin’s heart sped up at once, and when he looked to Will for some sign of what they should do all trace of Will’s arrogant worldliness had bled out of his face as quickly as his colour. Will’s eyes were round as saucers. His lips shaped the word “What” but did not get further than that. From below there came a faint rustling – a rustling that grew louder, nearer their tree as they listened. Merlin didn’t dare breathe. He could feel the dull tread of heavy, uneven steps on the soft forest floor reverberating up the trunk of their tree. The wood murmured uneasily. “Who is it?” the voice challenged again. A man. He sounded out of breath, as though he’d run a very long way. As the stranger drew closer, Merlin’s insides squeezed uncomfortably. Metallic rasping, clattering. Armour and mail.

“A knight,” he mouthed to Will, whose eyes, impossibly, grew wider. Some of the wild fear in Will’s eyes was becoming overshadowed by the excited glint Merlin had come to learn could get them into very deep trouble. 

“What do we do?” Will exhaled the question almost soundlessly. Merlin shook his head. The apples on the ground were a sure sign. They would be seen. The knight would not miss it; he would know. He had to. “Can you magic him away?” Will suggested.

“No!” Merlin hissed. He tried reaching out and asking the tree to shift its branches and leaves to conceal him and Will, but the tree didn’t seem to want to cooperate. And even if it did, the stranger would hear. “We should...just stay. Don’t move?”

Will’s fingers dug hard into Merlin’s arm. “He’ll see the apples. He’ll see us. What if it’s the man in black?”

There was no answer Merlin could give for that. He just tried following the sounds of the stranger moving through the low brush in the forest. The stranger’s movements sounded slow, too, like he was being careful. Maybe he was hunting, trying not to scare away any game. Or maybe he was scared, like Will. “I know someone is there,” the stranger called out again. “Declare yourself.”

“I’m not declaring nothing,” Will muttered. “Not ‘til we see who he is, anyway. And if he’s a magic I’ll jump down and distract him. You run. Right?”

Merlin was spared the job of pointing out how ridiculous was the idea of Will trying to distract a grown, probably armed, man while Merlin just ran away by the stranger stepping into sight several yards from their tree. He froze, and felt Will do the same.

They could get a decent look at the stranger from here, but he was far enough from the apple tree that Merlin and Will were hidden by the foliage around them. The man – the knight; he had to be – was a novelty, but not immediately frightening. He was unkempt, his cloak torn and filthy. As he moved slowly through the trees Merlin decided he looked, as mum was fond of saying to Will’s da at the end of harvest, as though a stiff wind would blow him over. The knight had obviously noticed the large number of apples on the ground, as he was coming closer to the tree, but he still hadn’t looked up into Merlin and Will’s hiding place. He must have been either very tired or very stupid. The closer he drew to their hiding place the more obvious Merlin and Will should have been if someone had looked hard enough.

The stranger muttered something they couldn’t hear. He crouched down, picked up an apple, and stared at it for a long moment. He was close enough that Merlin could see the golden shape on the back of his cloak. 

The stranger bit into the apple he was holding and chewed thoughtfully. And then he looked up, right into Merlin’s eyes.

Merlin felt as though the breath had been punched from his chest, so great was the surprise at finding himself looking into the utterly unfamiliar eyes of someone so entirely unexpected. Will gave a little strangled gasp beside him and clutched Merlin’s arm even harder.

It felt like ages; Merlin couldn’t tear his gaze away from the knight’s. The stranger’s eyes looked dark from here and he didn’t react save his brows lifting slightly, registering his own surprise. 

All at once, then, the knight merely collapsed to the ground with a soft groan. He lay there, crumpled and unmoving under their tree, but still Merlin didn’t budge. Was it a trick? If they moved, climbed down from the tree, would the knight get up again? “Merlin,” Will whispered, aghast. “Did you kill him?”

“No!” Merlin hissed. His voice was high-pitched and frantic in a way he knew Will would ordinarily have made fun of. “I didn’t do anything, I swear!”

“Well, use...you know. Can you tell...is he dead?”

“Erm...” Merlin tried to feel the man through the earth, though he was beginning to feel a little shaky and pitifully tearful, and without control of the magic now. It kept shivering  
out of his reach, until he finally managed to clamp down on it a little to get a brief, brushing sensation of the man’s breathing into the grass. “I don’t think he’s dead,” he said slowly. “But he’s not...he’s not very well. I think.”

“Look at the blood,” Will hissed. He was sounding more himself now. More prat-ish. “Course he’s ‘not very well’.” He started clambering down the tree as quickly as he could, half sliding until he was close enough to the ground to let go and drop the rest of the way. Merlin felt his hard landing on the forest floor, and hastened to follow his lead when Will gestured for him. Merlin’s descent was far less controlled, and Will ended up having to half catch him when he caught his foot on the small, stumpy branch-handhold and was shaken from his grip on the trunk. Without even waiting for Merlin to find his balance Will was off, darting through the trees with only a brief glance over his shoulder at the unmoving knight. Merlin struggled to keep up on his shorter legs.

“Will,” he panted. “Will –“

“Hurry up.” Will sounded determined, but still excited. “We have to get my da, or someone – did you see what was on the knight’s cloak? A dragon,” he gasped before Merlin could answer. “A gold dragon. That’s a Camelot knight!”

 

Merlin concentrated on the rhythm of Will’s footfalls on the mossy path several yards ahead of him. The morning was growing warmer, and the heat bullied itself into Merlin's ttention as he and Will thundered out of the relative shelter of the shallow wood and toward the open fields sprawling in all directions from Ealdor, their hub. The low stone huts composing the village flashed in and out of view as they rounded each bend, until Will decided to forego the winding path entirely and instead took a direct route through the underbrush. Merlin followed with a groan. Had he the breath to do so, he would have pointed out the potential stupidity of the decision.

As if on cue, Will’s foot tangled with a root and he was flung bodily to the ground with a loud, pained grunt. Merlin skidded to a brief, panting halt, ready to haul him up again, but Will beat him to it. A small corner of Merlin laughed at the spectacle. Where Will would normally have milked some feigned or minor injury for all of Merlin’s sympathy, now he lit upon the ground for only a moment before he bounced back to his feet, panting, and continued on until his newly-acquired limp had evened back out into the speed of which Will was so proud.

Merlin’s breath was wheezing in his chest and sweat trickling down his back when they burst into the fields and pushed through the wheat on their way to the village. Will began shouting at once. “Da! Da!”

Several heads lifted from their work, scythes slowing and tied-up sheaves momentarily forgotten. “Who’s that then?” Martin called.

“It’s only Will,” someone called from nearby. “Crying ‘wolf’ again, I expect!”

“Looking for Acton?” Otis shouted. “Mending fences on the south side.” Will waved an acknowledging hand.

“And where have you been, lazy buggers?”

Will ignored the barb, ignored the other obscenities flung their way berating them for their truancy from the harvest. Instead Will increased his speed and made for the lane dividing the sections of crops. “Merlin! Merlin, boy, here!” 

Matthew. He caught Merlin as he passed, pulling him to an abrupt halt. Matthew was kind, and liked teaching Merlin about making things grow, but he could be infuriatingly single-minded when faced with something that needed doing. “I need to find mum,” Merlin panted. He tugged ineffectually against Matthew’s firm grip on his upper arm.

“The harvest, Merlin. You were assigned to me, remember? You’re meant to sheaf.” Matthew tugged Merlin back toward the section of field he and several others were working. “Smells like a storm, Simmons says,” he chuckled. Matthew did a very good job of ignoring Merlin’s squirming. “Had better finish up as much as we can, eh? Your mum’ll be proud you’re practicing this kind of work; lads like you are the future of this place, you know! Never mind that William; nothing but trouble, that one. Green thumbs like you and me, we need to do whatever we can to help.” Matthew pointed to the growing pile of stalks laying ready and waiting on the ground. “Here, you fetch twine from Elyn and get started. Not too heavy, now, with those sheaves. Make sure you can carry them.”

Mum had always taught Merlin to be polite, to be respectful, but Will was out of sight now, and that knight was still in the wood...

“’ey! Merlin!” Matthew made a grab for Merlin’s arm again, but Merlin dodged and took off again in the direction Will had gone.

“S-sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll be back, I promise!” He would already be in trouble with mum; Merlin figured he was all in, now. A stitch burned low in his side, making his breath come even more ragged than before, but Merlin didn’t stop. He reached the fence and spotted Will some distance away, arms waving as he presumably shouted their story to his father. Merlin tried to vault the fence as he’d been practicing, but ended up ducking through the rails when his tired, trembling muscles failed to cooperate with him. A few of the boys and girls who witnessed his pathetic attempt laughed, and were scolded back to work.

By the time he made it to Will and Acton, Will was wrapping up his whirlwind explanation about strange knight in the forest. Will’s da, for his part, didn’t seem excited or afraid. His expression scarcely changed from its usual passive set, but his eyes were cold. He held up a hand to stop Will’s tirade, and nodded slowly. “William, go and gather all the able men you can. Tell them to meet me outside our hut with any weapon they have, or any they can borrow.”

“I’ll get my sword!” Will cried. He turned and took two steps before his arm was seized.

Merlin hung back, waiting. Will’s da shook his head. “You’re not coming with us. Go tell the men and the older boys. Now.”

“But Da –“

“Now, William. Caron, Simon – you help Will and Merlin. Gather the young men, the boys – anyone who can run, anyone who can fight. Have them bring anything they can use to defend themselves.” 

Caron and Simon took off without a word, their hand scythes still held white-knuckled in their hands as they departed, calling for the others in earshot. Will’s jaw was set stubbornly, but Merlin did not want to loiter about to hear him chastised, or to see him given a thump. He took his cue instead, and ran. Mathias and Joseph were close; they’d stopped working when Will had come running but their confusion was clear.

“Get your weapons!” Merlin called. “A knight in the forest; meet at Acton’s as soon as you can!”

“A knight?” Mathias gasped. Merlin continued on, ignoring his and Joseph’s call for more information.

Mum was working with a few other women and some of the girls, cleaning and dividing up the hauls of fresh vegetables. She smiled when she saw Merlin round the corner, but Merlin watched it turn to a frown before he’d even reached her. “What is it?” she asked at once. “You’re flushed. What happened to your knee?” 

Merlin glanced down; his knee was bleeding sluggishly and he hadn’t noticed. It must have been where he’d scraped it on the tree, or an errant piece of debris kicked up as he and Will had run for home. “Nothing,” he lied. “Acton sent me – he wants all the men and the older boys at his hut. They’re going into the woods, to the big apple tree. There’s a knight!”

Mum stood up fast, dislodging the carrots that were in her lap. “What?”

“A knight!” Telling someone himself gave Merlin a rush of whatever excitement Will had been acting out in relaying the message to his father. “Me and Will were at the apple tree, there was a knight, we think he comes from Camelot! Never seen anyone from Camelot but there was the big gold dragon on his cloak, the cloak is red, and he saw us in the tree but then _fwoomph_ he just fell over! Will thought he was dead! He’s not though. We checked!”

“Spread the word,” mum told the other women; their faces had gone as ashen as Will’s in the tree. “Have anyone who is willing and able meet Acton at his home as quickly as they can. Merlin,” she said sharply, “go home. Go inside. Close the door, stay away from the windows. Do not move until I come and find you.”

Merlin felt the adrenaline drain away, felt his expression fall. “But mum –“

“I will bring William back with me. We will wait for the others to return. Go,” mum ordered. “Do not argue with me now, Merlin. Do as I tell you. Go home.”

It felt wrong, trudging down the beaten lane to their small hut at the edge of the village. Walking in one direction when it seemed everyone else was going in the other. Merlin found himself wanting to go back to the wood, to see the knight and ask him why he had come so close to Ealdor. He wanted the breathless, excited fear that had shaken him when the knight had stepped into view, or when the knight had looked up into the tree and mirrored Merlin’s surprise. He didn’t want to be left at home, huddled up waiting for something to go wrong, or for mum to watch from the window until the lines of tension eased from her face. He certainly didn’t want to be herded to the caves to hide with the babies and the elders. All this fuss for one knight. All this fuss for one man bleeding and unconscious under an apple tree.

Sending out scores of men for one stranger who couldn't have hurt them if he'd tried. Merlin grinned as he shut himself into the hut and crossed the room to sit on his blanket. Grownups were strange that way.

 

Mum wheedled the whole story out of Merlin in the end, despite Will’s warnings not to share the reasons they had been in the wood. They were scolded darkly for being in the apple tree, and for conspiring to make mischief. To make matters worse, though, they had to help prepare the stew mum was making for the men and boys who had been allowed to take up scythes, pikes, ragged swords and any other makeshift weapons they could in order to head into the wood to find the knight. It was with downtrodden spirits that they peeled and cut and tossed ingredients into the big soup pot; stirred; tasted; swept the hard floor free of peelings, and finally settled back at the window to stare out into the long shadows of late afternoon. 

“Bet they bury him,” Will declared sotto voce. He’d talked Merlin into a ‘best eyes’ competition; the winner would be the first to catch a glimpse of the men returning. “Just cut his throat and bury – “

“William,” mum said sharply from her seat near the fire. “What have I told you?”

Will pouted. “Sorry.” But when mum was busying herself and not paying attention again, Will whispered that the knight would be buried right under the big apple tree, and Merlin and Will would never be able to go there again because his ghost would haunt it until it could have its revenge on the ones who betrayed him to the villagers, and who were ultimately responsible for his murder.

Will received a good cuff ‘round the ear from mum for that one. Turned out she had been paying attention after all. But she didn't try to offer a different answer to the question of what would be done with the knight, so when Acton and the others returned when the sun had set completely, empty-handed and somber, Merlin exchanged a knowing look with Will. He felt grown-up. He felt a little afraid to go back to the apple tree.

But he mostly felt very sad, and didn't know why.


End file.
